#warehouse checklist

[terotam]

https://terotam.com/blog/warehouse-maintenance-checklist

Everything You Need to Know About Warehouse Maintenance Checklist

[jbncleaning]

Warehouse cleaning can be a nightmare, primarily because it is a frenzied job and not everyone’s cup of tea. At a warehouse facility, your daily material and merchandise loads and unloads; people are busy taking these materials from one corner to another. It is a chaotic site in everyday life. Here check our warehouse cleaning checklist.

[lakeportmetal]

Workers in warehouses are more likely to experience accidents and injuries in high-stress settings. You can do your part to lower these rates, and implementing a warehouse safety checklist is a crucial first step.

[fics-and-quotes-andthelike]

Better Late Than Never

Title: Better Late Than Never

Pairing: Dean Winchester x female reader

Word Count: ~2,143

In which the reader’s love language is physical touch, but has never touched Dean…in public.

A/N: I really hope you guys like this one! Thanks so much for reading and for your support. If you have any requests for a fic, feel free to give me a character and a prompt/explanation for what you’d like!

Your love language has always been physical touch. A quick brush of hands here, an innocent kiss to the cheek there. Whether it was your friend or your significant other, touch was just something you used to show that you cared.

So it meant a lot to you when, after you moved in with the Winchesters, Sam had quickly picked up on your love language and allowed you to give him occasional hugs. He’d also gone out of his way to hug you, or even just put a reassuring hand on your shoulder once in a while.

But even though you felt more than comfortable with Sam, you were the first to admit that you’d never so much as given Dean a high five.

In front of others.

In the privacy of an empty bunker or motel room, you and Dean had no problem brushing against each other and exchanging brief touches. Eventually, the brief touches had turned into longer ones, and hands drifted from your shoulder to the small of your back. Then those touches turned into sitting right beside each other, your head resting on his shoulder as he peppered kisses on the top of your head. And after that, kisses on your head turned to kisses on your lips, while hands on your back turned into hands grasping your hips.

But as soon as Sam, Cas, Charlie, or anyone else walked through the door, you would revert back to no touches at all.

It’s not that you didn’t want to. He truly meant the world to you. But every time someone would walk into the room, he would pull away. And you never wanted to make Dean feel uncomfortable, even if it was killing you inside. So, to respect his space, you’d never so much as given Dean a high five in front of other people.

Until today.

A hunt had gone sideways when a djinn had outsmarted the three of you and gotten its hands on Dean while you and Sam had been out getting dinner.

When you got back to the motel room to see that Dean was gone and not answering his phone, you and Sam had come up with a plan. A questionable plan, for sure, but it was all that you could come up with in the limited time that you were allowed.

Now, the two of you sat in Baby, reviewing the plan before you burst into the abandoned warehouse where Dean was being kept.

“Whatever you do, don’t engage with the djinn, got it? I’ll take care of him, you take care of Dean.”

You nodded stiffly, your eyes on the building ahead. “I hear you, I got it. But if you’re in any trouble-”

Sam sighed in exasperation. “Would you just listen to me for a second-”

You looked up at him, fury in your gaze. “I will not let that djinn take you, too.”

Sam’s gaze softened. For all of the sweet touches that you passed around, you were still a hunter, willing to hurt anything that came between you and your family.

He placed a comforting hand on your shoulder and leaned towards you. “Hey. We’re going to be okay, alright? Us and Dean, we’re getting out of here. And that djinn isn’t gonna know what hit him.”

He kept his hand on your shoulder until you finally nodded in agreement, a half smile taking shape on your lips. You took a deep breath and checked the bullets in your gun and the knife hidden in your jacket as Sam checked the knife dipped in lamb’s blood and the colt in his holster one last time.

As you went through your mental checklist, you couldn’t help the bolt of fear that shot through you when you realized that the djinn could have easily killed Dean hours ago.

You shook your head at the thought. Dean was tough, and if the djinn was probably desperate to make his life force last as long as possible.

You shook out your nerves one last time before you straightened up and looked towards Sam. “Alright,” you muttered. “Let’s get this thing.”

The two of you got out of the car quietly before making your way to the door of the warehouse. Sam put a finger to his lips as he tried the door. You both made a face of surprise when the door gave way easily. Sam led the way as you crept inside, hoping against all odds that the rest of the revue would go this smoothly.

But of course, it wouldn’t really be a Winchester hunt if nothing went wrong.

As soon as you and Sam entered the building, you were ambushed by the waiting djinn. With the advantage of surprise on its side, it quickly overpowered Sam and tossed him to the side before it turned its attention toward you.

You cursed under your breath and raised your gun, knowing full well that it and your knife would do nothing to save you, since the plan had been that you would never have to face the djinn. The djinn smiled at your panic, pacing towards you swiftly.

Suddenly, Sam appeared once again behind the djinn. The djinn whirled around and just barely managed to dodge the knife that Sam swung its way.

Sam risked a glance over to you. “Go! Get Dean!”

You nodded, though he had already turned back to face the djinn.

You looked around wildly, hoping for some kind of sign as to where Dean could be. You startled when you heard faint gasping coming from one of the rooms to your right.

Dean. You sighed in relief as you followed the sound. He had probably saved himself from his fantasy world. You shuddered as you remembered what he’d had to do to escape his dream, and started moving faster.

You entered the room cautiously, gun in hand. From your left, a weak voice croaked out your name.

You whirled around to find Dean weak and bound, but utterly alive. You felt tears well up in your eyes as you ran over to him, shoving your gun back in its holster so that you could grab your knife and cut through his bindings.

Dean looked up at you and smiled weakly. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You ignored him, focused solely on setting him free. Your hands were shaking, making it harder to cut through the ropes. Finally, with an extra push, your knife cut through. You dropped it so that you could catch Dean, who slumped forward as soon as he was able to move again.

You slowly lowered the two of you to the ground, allowing him to catch his breath. “Are you okay?” you asked, a slight tremor in your voice.

Dean looked up at you, his eyes soft as he searched your face. “I’m alright.”

His gaze sharpened suddenly, and he looked around the room. “Where’s Sammy?”

Your head snapped over to the door, through which you could hear sounds of a fight. You cursed lightly under your breath as you stood.

Dean moved to stand as well, but you placed your hands on his shoulders and pushed him back lightly. “Stay here,” you ordered. “I’ll help Sam.”

“I’m not gonna-”

“Stay. Here.”

Dean eyed you stubbornly, but seemed to think better of himself, and nodded once for you to go on. He watched as you picked up your knife and handed it to him before you exited the room, jumping straight into the fight.

He sighed and leaned back against the wall behind him. Normally, he wouldn’t have stayed behind, regardless of what you or Sam said. But as he lay still against the wall, he couldn’t help but remember the dream that he’d been forced into.

You, him, and Sam. There’d been no more monsters. No fighting, no war. Just the three of you, living peacefully.

Jess had been there. She and Sam had gotten married, and Sam was the happiest man around. Or maybe not the happiest. Dean himself had been pretty happy too, with you by his side, through sickness and health. Finally free to hug and love each other freely, regardless of who was around.

He smiled as he looked back on it, but immediately broke out of his memory and jerked to attention as he heard footsteps enter the room.

Panic filled his body. Was it the djinn? Had he gotten to you and Sam? He clutched the knife you had given him in his hand, ready to make good use of it.

He heard Sam call out his name, relief filling his body. Dean opened his eyes and stood slowly, smiling at the two hunters watching him with concerned eyes. “Hey, Sammy.”

You heard Sam laugh breathlessly in relief while your eyes raked over Dean’s body, making sure that he wasn’t hiding an injury.

Dean tilted his head slightly, meeting your eyes. “I’m fine. Honest.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. You were aware of Sam saying something next to you, but you couldn’t focus on his words, your attention solely on Dean.

When Dean looked over at you again, a small smile on his lips and concern in his eyes, you couldn’t help yourself. You threw down your weapon and ran over, throwing yourself into his arms.

You’d never been hugged like that before.

His arms wound themselves around your body and tightened, pressing you against him. His hands were open, one resting on your shoulder and one on your side, both tugging you closer than you thought possible. His head rested on top of yours, and he murmured reassurances into your ear as he slowly rocked you side to side.

Through it all, you could faintly hear the sound of Sam leaving the room, giving the two of you some space.

When you finally pulled back, Dean’s hands didn’t leave you, instead resting on your hips as he pressed his forehead to yours.

Your hands fluttered between his shoulders, his neck, and his face as you closed your eyes and inhaled a shaky breath. “I thought you were dead.”

Dean chuckled and gave the barest shake of his head, bringing his hands up to rest them on yours where they sat cradling his face. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

You laughed. “Because my life revolves around you?”

“Because then we’d never be able to tell Sam about us.”

You felt your face change, your smile dropping as you stepped away from Dean.

He looked back at you as his arms dropped down to his sides, hurt evident on his face. “What did I do? Are we not…?”

“No!” You exclaimed, shaking your head quickly.

You saw disappointment and shame flit across his features. You shook your head again. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant…I just…I wasn’t sure.”

“Sure about what?”

“It’s just…” You steeled yourself. “You always pull away from me. I thought maybe you were embarrassed or something. Or maybe you just wanted me to help you feel better-”

Dean’s whole body jerked with surprise and he stepped towards you, arms outstretched. “No, sweetheart, that’s not it at all. I’m just…” He hesitated, only a step away from you as his arms dropped. “I’m not good with mushy gushy crap. You know that.”

You smiled cautiously. “I know. Nothing wrong with that.”

He nodded, unmoving.

You took a step towards him. “Maybe we could…work on it together?”

A smirk crossed his face as he reached an arm around your back and pulled you closer. “Oh, yeah?”

A laugh crossed your lips. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Dean leaned his head down to softly brush his lips against yours. “I know.”

You felt him stiffen as you both heard footsteps re-enter the room, with Sam loudly complaining, “You guys good to go?”

You moved to pull away, muscle memory taking over, when Dean suddenly cupped your face with one hand and pressed his other hand against your back. His eyes searched yours. “Is this okay?”

Your heart was hammering against your chest, the knowledge that what you said could determine your whole relationship with both Winchesters weighing on your brain.

You heard Sam’s footsteps moving closer and smiled breathlessly. “Yeah,” you managed to say before he connected his lips to yours.

“Guys,” Sam repeated as he stepped into the room. His eyes landed on the two of you, your hands cupping Dean’s face as he pulled you closer still. He chuckled and turned away, but not before shouting, “It’s about time!”

He could hear Dean telling him where to shove it as he walked away, and he couldn’t help but laugh at the fact that the two of you genuinely believed that nobody had noticed your secret relationship these past two years.

Oh well, he thought to himself. Better late than never.

[pinkrelish]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐞𝐬" 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐲 | 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚

singledad!mechanic!eddie x fem!reader

✶A deleted scene from chapter twelve where receptionist!reader acts like a bimbo in front of Eddie just to rile him up. Written very tongue-in-cheek at the beginning.✶

NSFW — sexual themes, handjob, unresolved sexual tension, 18+

↳ start the story here to catch up!

[wc: 2.1k]

Heeding your checklist of chores, you idled at the workbench against the far corner of the wall. There were a few of the usual things you organized: placing nuts and bolts in drawers, facing products with their labels out, tidying small boxes, folding the end of the paper towel roll so it didn’t unfurl itself in the turbulent path of the oscillating fan. You bent over to toss cellophane wrappers into the waste paper bin, and took your time musing if the liner should be changed despite the little amount of balled up paper weighing down the bottom. Standing, you swept off the unsanded tabletop with your hands, and worked a crusty rag over an oil streak, making a mental note to call the laundry service to swing by a day early.

As you stepped away, you knocked a pencil to the floor. Its bright yellow body was impossible to miss, along with its excruciatingly long hexagonal roll carried by your elbow to the very edge, but you managed. You knelt to your hands and knees to retrieve the writing utensil, inspecting its broken tip. The graphite was missing completely, leaving behind an empty hole where it once was. An unfortunate accident. You rotated it a few times looking for other flaws—an honorable way to spend your time.

“You doin’ this on purpose?” gruffed out an annoyed voice behind you.

No need to check, you heard the amused twist at the corner of his lips. His left canine was probably on show, too. Not in a hurry to confirm, you gripped the pencil in your fist, and leaned forward, stretching in search of the missing lead before it was stomped into dust and potentially transferred from someone’s boot sole into a wealthy client’s car. You were thinking of them, really.

The floor was a rewarding oasis in the noonday sun baking through the warehouse windows. Your flat splayed hands and knuckles worked over the grit of dirt to inch your pursuit closer to the wall, drinking in the chill of the epoxy coated concrete cooling you down better than a 50 cent clear plastic cup of Kool Aid at a kid’s misspelled lemonaide stand. Though, the unforgiving flooring bit into your joints, and indented your knees with the netting of your pantyhose. But Eddie’s study did not sway to your shoe slipping off your heel. No, he was a gentleman. And as a gentleman, he praised the wealth of curves you put on display.

He used the heels of his heavy boots to drag himself from under a Mustang, thumping up beside you, wheels on the creeper rolling along the slick floor.

The lower you dipped your chest, the higher your skirt hem tickled the back of your thighs. In total innocence—truly giving your best effort to find the missing pencil tip—you tilted your hips to unimaginable degrees, presenting your ass to the point even your lower back side-eyed your act.

Smooth backs of fingers lifted the hem more. Eddie curled his index under your skirt, and assisted it to the crease of your cheek, following the change in nylon with his rough thumbprint as it wove denser around your thighs to hold you in. Tummy Control, it was advertised as. To a man who had seldom encounters with women, this meant very little to him, as did the change in texture. Though, curiously, he rubbed at it with interest.

“You’re something else, you know that?” But his voice was too playful to shame you, hardly traipsing through his throat to chastise. “I’m out here working my ass off, and you’re struttin’ around the garage in this lil’ piece.” The little piece in question was your corporate approved pencil skirt from a long forgotten temp job when your apartment lost two roommates in a breakup, and rent was past due.

Pandering to your audience of one, you shuffled two of the tiniest inches backwards, and steadied your hand on his outstretched leg. You bent at the hips, filling his large palm with a handful of your ass, and he admired you in a brush of fingertips near the innermost valley of your thigh, licking a divine chill up your spine. Playing along, you pretended to just notice him, assuming a sinless gasp, and following it with many airheaded inflections, “Oh! Didn’t see you there, handsome. Am I distracting you?”

The standing fan swung its head in your direction, sweeping Eddie’s bangs off his forehead in a brief burst.

You’d been on hundreds of dates, and not once had you been so deeply complimented by someone’s gaze.

Eddie dwelled in the distraction. He stroked his thumb over the fat, and traced his pinky along the hypersensitive crease before the swell which had your muscles tightening in a squirm. He was so close to the middle seam of the pantyhose. Perhaps he knew this as well, but didn’t care—he was just happy to be touching you. Laid out in the neon orange creeper, sun glancing off the packed garage, casting a glow across his puffy face. Sleepy eyes, messy hair, unbearably adorable grin—the type of candid expression showing how honored he was to look at you, so forthcoming and open. A trap, if there ever was one, luring you into picturing him twisted amongst your bedding on a late morning.

As he tracked his gaze over your backside, an aching reminder moseyed its way into his consciousness. Setting into a glare, he forced his way through any pleasantness lingering in his chest to tell you plainly, “Sweetheart, you’re fucking torturing me here.” You giggled, and he broke, falling victim to the squinch at his crow’s feet.

“You think I’m not torturing myself, too?”

“Dunno.” He craned his head back to check underneath the car for where each pair of boots were moving, and you peeped through the driver’s side window to keep tabs on the seated customers in the lobby. Once you both ensured there was no danger of being caught, he turned his attention to you fully. “You’re not wearing my favorite pair, so I couldn’t tell.” In case you weren’t sure, he wrung his hand around your leg, and drummed his fingers where there should be an easily accessible hole in your tights, where he could drag his fingers through your slick truth. His sorry features were tainted with remorse when your plush thighs weren't spilling out from the nylon; however, he drew his eyebrows in mock sympathy, and traced the area. “Could make these my new favorite pair, though.”

You about melted into a puddle of dumbstruck glee at his first foray into initiating dirty talk. “Yeah?” you stressed the word like he would—big smile and all. You raised the placement of your grip on his leg up, further, still going until the inside of your thumb threatened to assist what laid fat and heavy towards his hip. Car exhaust, pungent motor oil, and fumes swam in your head. Mind dizzy, you skimmed your nails over his heavy sack pressed tight against the seam of his coveralls. An implied line was drawn along your heat by his featherlight touch. You leaned over him, real close, chest over chest, knees spread because his hand encouraged you to do so. Mouth to mouth, considering kissing the dirt from his lips. “Wanna rip ‘em, and have me on top while you’re on this thing?”

Eddie moaned, and it wasn’t shy in the loud garage. “Want it so fucking bad, baby.”

A single ding from the bell atop your desk drew your attention.

Bodies paused, you both existed in the indecision of what to do. Eddie’s forehead wrinkled from his high brows driving his attention backwards, peering under the car again. The other employees of David’s Auto Repair shuffled around a Studebaker. There was no one inside to help the customer. What a shame.

Eddie lowered his chin in long clockticks, seeking you behind his heavy lashes and heavier gaze. His nose met the side of yours in an unrefined graze, dragging his chapped lips wherever he felt your smile. He kissed you hungry. Needy, desperate to fit the magnitude of his palm at the back of your head, and dirty your mouth with noses mashed together. He wanted you messy, he wanted you catching your balance on the creeper for the same reason his held sigh became your next breath, taking a pinch of your pantyhose over your pussy and twisting it around his fist to demonstrate his annoyance, as if the dull ache of your bottom lip against his teeth wasn’t illustrative enough. The peak of your whine and his approving hum tethered the snap of your tights and the squeeze he left on your thigh. Filthy warmth blanketed the top of your hand. Stifling hot, calluses running rough over your knuckles as he cupped your palm over his hard length, and curled your fingers around himself, kicking his hips up to really stretch the limits of your grip. Together, he guided you in a few teasing pumps along the base, ego growing at the pretty sound hitched in your throat.

“Hey, Ed!” Mr. Moore’s yell burst the bubble you two surrounded yourselves in. “C’mere, ‘nd look at this.”

It wasn’t an emergency. It could wait. There were enough mechanics on duty, they could figure out what they were gawking at, or admiring, or whatever it was they were doing. That was the justification behind your shared look with Eddie, and the tension holding you two apart faded within seconds. If anything it spurred you on. You raked your fingers through his hair, mussing the roots at the crown of his head, covering the side of his body with yours, stroking his cock. The consequences didn’t matter. He increased the pressure and showed you how he liked it when you looped your thumb and index around the edge of his fat tip and pumped him faster—

Ding, ding, ding.

The kiss slowed from the distraction, but you tried to keep going, staying in the moment with Eddie’s praise burning your cheeks. He was eager, he was close. He was whispering, “Feels fucking good when you—yeah—like that,” when you added the twist of your wrist to the end of motion.

“Ed!” Mr. Moore’s voice ruined the moment. “Where’d he… And wasn’t she at her desk a second ago?”

Ding, ding ding!

Your foreheads crashed together in a defeated groan.

Eddie sagged completely limp on the creeper. “Why do you do this to me?” He dropped his arms in a big shrug, kicking his legs out flat, throbbing hard in your palm. You curbed the urge to keep going and dragged your fingers away.

“Hey, you’re the one who started this,” you sniffed, sitting back to fan your face in effort to make yourself presentable while he considered rolling under the car for the next eternity to hide his blazing red cheeks.

“I was a good worker before you came along,” he argued, pointing at you with a nail outlined in grime. He did it with such vigor his shoulders curled off the creeper, sitting up to give you a real good talkin’ to. “I never did this sorta shit with anyone before you showed up. You’re bad for me. You drive me crazy.” Not an ounce of anger dared enter his tone, not even having strength to control his smile from going lopsided, dimpling, nose scrunching in a badly contained laugh. Never would he want you to think he was mad at you, even as a joke. He was soft like that.

Eddie broke first, and that’s all you needed to kiss him against the black Mustang door, thud on the metal deadened by his nervous hand coming up to brush his curls flat.

“You drive me crazy too,” you promised against his lips. “Now, try not to cum your pants when I bend over to get this trash, and have fun explaining to the guys why you can’t stand up for the next few minutes.” You cocked your head, and smacked your tongue in a hard, “‘Kay?”

He glared at your smugness. Glared at your backside, too. Scowled at his grip formed around the swollen length rising so obvious no matter how he fixed his legs, and surrendered to the humiliation of laying back on the creeper, summoning enough dignity to roll himself to the other side where a gaggle of boots scuffed the ground in search for him, and give some excuse that he was very busy fixing something and wouldn’t be available for the foreseeable future.

originally thursday's section in chapter twelve was split into three separate scenes. i was almost finished writing the first two when i took the section in a different direction and mashed all the important elements into the scene in the breakroom which did make the cut. truthfully i had only written to eddie's line of "wanting it so badly" and they would've gotten interrupted at that point (before any touching), but since this isn't exactly canon, i went ahead and had fun and made it a little spicier.

you might also recognize some imagery, lines of prose, or descriptions i salvaged from this piece and put into the final one!

[ggomos-maribat]

10 | in which Marinette Dupain-Cheng submits her resignation

Part 10 (Last Chapter) of No Mr. Wayne You Can't Adopt Me! | Masterlist

Marinette ticked off her mental checklist. Lights? Here. Stage? Ready. Food? All served. She clenched her jaw. Bruce Wayne, her boss, the single most important person for the night?

Missing in action.

She tapped her heeled foot on the ground. It was twenty minutes already, but the entire night's schedule was officially in disarray. Sooner or later, the guests would be asking. She had relentlessly called Bruce's phone over and over again that she didn't even know how many times it was. Even Damian she called a few times yet there was no answer.

She had a guess on what the reason was, but she expected more sense from Bruce—even if it was late at night, he would not be out there fighting crime.

Soon, she waved the figurative white flag and called Alfred after sneaking off somewhere quieter.

"Where is he?" she asked. Straightforward and simple.

"I'm sorry, Miss Marinette. I understand Master Bruce has an event today but . . ." Alfred trailed off. "He is currently unavailable at the moment."

"No, Alfred. Where exactly is he?"

A long pause followed. Then the elderly man spoke again. "I'm afraid he's caught up in a situation. They went out for patrol and seemed to have underestimated their targets. They are currently in a warehouse right now."

"What?" Marinette rubbed her head. Bruce, just. . . how?! "They, as in, all of them?!"

"Yes, Miss Marinette."

"Can no one get them right now?! The event was supposed to start ages ago!"

"Master Duke, Miss Cassandra and Miss Stephanie are all out of town unfortunately." Alfred sighed. "Actually, may I trouble you to rescue them? It will be faster than calling for backup from the Justice League."

Marinette bit her lip. Kwamis. How could all of them get captured?! What's stopping me from walking out from my job right now, huh, Bruce? I could leave you to your kidnappers all night long.

"I apologize, Miss Marinette, but they cannot seem to get out themselves. I will personally make sure Master Bruce gives you a bonus within the week—"

"Okay, send me the coordinates."

Marinette changed into a dark vigilante-type outfit as fast as she could. Alfred sent an auto-driven ride to her location and she floored the pedal all the way to the warehouse. Relax, Marinette, she told herself, you asked Tam to stall the guests. If we finish this in fifteen minutes and Bruce gives some sort of half-assed excuse to the attendees, it'll be fiiiine.

She pulled down her mask when she arrived at the warehouse. Going into it, she exercised a little bit of caution. But later on, she realized that taking down the men was a piece of cake and maybe the boys just got a little but unlucky.

She slammed the doors open to one room and saw the vigilantes all tied up.

"MMmmf mmff mmm?" Batman asked, but his mouth was duct-taped.

"That's not important right now." Before Marinette cut off their binds, she threw them one by one into the car: Batman at the passenger seat and Red Hood, Red Robin, and Robin at the back.

"Who . . .?" Batman started again. The rest seemed speechless with shock (except Damian perhaps, who likely already figured her out).

"How, just how?" Marinette slammed the driver's side door loudly and twisted the ignition with her pent-up rage. "How did all of you get caught up in that?! Did you decide to play along with your kidnappers?!"

". . . Marinette?"

She huffed and drove, calculating the shortest possible route to the event venue. "Did you forget what was tonight, huh? Couldn't resist getting into your fursuit before a big launching event at WE?"

"But . . .but—"

"You literally have no excuse!" Marinette expertly swerved around cars, even nearly running a red light.

Batman reached for the car radio, which was playing a news update covering the WE event but she slapped his hand away.

"I thought I could make it in time," he helplessly explained, pulling his cowl down. "How did you know?"

"No, in case you didn't know, you're not making it in time." She instantly honked the car when another vehicle cut in in front of them. "Don't mess with me tonight, fucker!" She cried out the half-open window.

She swore she saw the boys at the back visibly gulp.

Marinette exhaled a steady breath. "Look, we'll talk about this some other time, but for now, you will go into that event, be a good CEO, and get treatment for your bruises the minute you get home, comprendre?"

"Com—comprendre . . ." Bruce repeated.

Marinette halted at the back of the venue, pulled out a formal outfit from a compartment and threw it at Bruce. Thankfully, he seemed to get the hint and bolted out of the car without complaints.

Marinette directed a glare at the boys through the rearview mirror. "Damian, switch with me. Jason, don't move and keep pressing on that wound. I'll give you first aid but we have to take you to Alfred to get that checked out."

"You got stabbed?!" Tim exclaimed.

"Um yeah." Jason sucked in a breath as Marinette hopped into the back and Damian took the wheel.

"Why didn't you tell us?!"

"You'll make a big fuss out of it." Jason rolled his eyes. "It's no big deal."

Marinette flicked his forehead while Tim helped get Jason's clothes out of the way. "It is a big deal; it looks pretty serious."

"I've had worse." Jason made a face as she treated his wound.

"Okay just because you died once already it doesn't mean you can get overconfident," Marinette sassed.

Tim stared at her with wide eyes. "How the hell did you know that?"

"I know everything." She finished off by wrapping the bandages around Jason's torso. "Sorry Dames, can you drive faster?"

With a nod, Damian sped up, replicating the rush from earlier. Jason also had his jaw hanging. "Demon spawn listens to her."

***

"How long have you known?"

They finally had the chance to sit down and talk the following day in the office. Marinette had her hands calmly folded on top of her lap, while Bruce was looking at her intently on the seat across.

"Ever since I started working for you."

Bruce blinked a few times, as if getting his identity discovered easily was news to him. Marinette continued, "You're not exactly sneaky about it, you know. It was very obvious. Who do you think was covering up for you?"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Bruce asked.

She sighed. "I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I wanted to help you from the sidelines like Alfred does and I thought you'd fire me if you knew that I knew."

By the look on his face, he was probably doing a quick flashback to all the times she messed with him as Batman. Bruce opened his mouth for a reply but she interrupted him. "And before you start suspecting me of doing anything bad, I want to let you know that you can trust me with your secret. If I had any ill intent, I would've acted on it a long time ago."

"It's—it's not that I don't trust you . . . it's—well, what made you break last night?"

Her gaze was glued to the floor. "I called Alfred and he told me where you were. I just . . . uhm, aside from the money he offered, I was really upset. The company prepared so much for the event and I put so much time making sure it was perfect. Then you don't show up."

When she looked up, the sting of guilt was evident in Bruce's eyes.

"I'm not faulting you for trying to fight crime," she added. "I just thought you'd be more responsible with your priorities."

"I'm sorry, Marinette," he said softly. "I didn't mean to disappoint you like that."

"Are you mad at me? For not telling you?"

"Mad—? I . . . I'm just surprised, really. But I should've known better. You helped us escape last night and you treated Jason's injury. I shouldn't be angry for that."

Marinette nodded slowly, satisfied with the apology. "I appreciate what you're doing for Gotham, so I'll make sure to keep you and your family's identities safe." She pulled out an envelope. "On a completely unrelated note, I think it's time I give you this."

Suffice to say, Bruce looked like he went through a storm of emotions whilst reading the piece of paper. "Your resignation letter?" He set it down. "If this is because of last night—"

"Nope, it's not because of last night." She smiled. "I just think it's time for me to look for a different career path. I do love my job right now, but I don't see myself as a PA forever."

Bruce's shoulders sagged. "Where will you go?"

"Hmm, recently Queen Industries sent me a good offer—"

"How much did Ollie offer you?" He sprung from his seat. "I'll pay ten times that!"

"Mr. Wayne," she motioned for him to sit back down. "I really do want to explore other options. I think I can get more experience with another company."

"But you'll need to leave Gotham."

She shook her head. "Mr. Queen allowed me to work remotely from Gotham. I'll be a consultant of sorts for their fashion department."

"But . . . but . . ."

"I'll be leaving in about a week. Don't worry, I'll make sure everything's in order for your next PA."

He's really sulking, Marinette observed. I feel a little bad . . .

"Any chance I can still adopt you?"

"Mr. Wayne."

"Fine." He raked a hand through his hair. "Then, will you at least join our family brunch this weekend? As a last 'thank you' to you."

Marinette thought for a moment, remembering a similar invitation from Alfred that Damian relayed earlier. "Sure, I'd love to go."

***

"Are you sure about this?"

Marinette checked her reflection on her phone. They arrived pretty early, but that meant she could help Alfred out for the food prep. Damian parked the car right in front of the manor. "Why? I already submitted my resignation."

"You were forced to quit your job because of me."

"I chose to resign not only because of you, but also because I did want to take Oliver's offer." She reached over to squeeze his hand. "If I stay as your father's assistant, there will always be a professional boundary I can't cross regardless of what's in the contract. You'll always be my boss' son, and I’ll just be your father's assistant. Without that now, I can actually act freely around you. I can even help with vigilante stuff if you need me."

He squeezed back. "Are you not worried about what people will say?"

The headlines flickered in Marinette's head: Bruce Wayne's former PA nabs the billionaire's son.

"Are you?"

"No. I couldn't care less."

"Then I'm not." She beamed. "I've already seen how harsh the media can be. If all goes to shit, we sue the hell out of them."

"Father will be devastated when he finds out."

She shrugged. "He should've seen this coming, honestly."

"Hmm."

"Why?"

"When I marry you, he will have the satisfaction of having you as his daughter however."

"M—marry?" Marinette squeaked. "You're already thinking about marriage?"

"Is that bad?"

"No . . . wait, sorry I was just caught off guard." Her chest fluttered at the thought of their future. "Of course Damian, I'd love to marry you someday."

A small smile played at Damian's lips, the subtle kind that she loved so much. "Now that you're not bound by contract, does that mean I can kiss you anytime I want?"

Marinette answered him with her lips, softly kissing him as his hand lifted to hold her cheek. They parted for a second before he started peppering kisses on the corner of her lips, on her nose and her forehead. She pressed a long kiss on his cheek in return.

"It looks like we won't need to break the news to Father anymore."

"What?"

When Marinette turned around, Bruce was just at the front steps of the manor, disheveled and clad in pajamas and an old bathrobe, plus Robin-themed fuzzy slippers. At his feet laid pieces of a shattered mug, which he had seemingly dropped out of shock.

Marinette laughed. "Oops."

She pressed the button to roll her window down and waved at the dumbstruck Bruce Wayne. "Morning, Bruce! Cute slippers!" 

End AN: That wraps up NMWYCAM! Thank you for reading, commenting and kudos-ing this fic; I didn't expect it to blow up this much😮 If you want to know about my next upcoming fic, check out this poll of mine in Tumblr🙂

[lordgrimoire]

The Goonion would Like a Word, Chapter 3

[Goonion Headquarters, Gotham, New Jersey]

“ORDER! ORDER I SAY!” The warehouse, once a hideout for a minor gang operating out of The Narrows, fell into a hush as the hundreds of gangsters shuffled back into their seats or places of observation, keeping their hands occupied with papers, phones, tablets, as long as they were out in the open and away from their weapons, that was good. “Alright.” The haggard voice of Bill, the local head of The Goonion, echoed across the room. 

“The Ghost Investigation Ward, or the Guys in White as some call them, have been confirmed by the Red Hood Gang to be encroaching upon Gotham, Bludhaven, and Metropolis.” The crowd murmured at that, distress and frustration in their stances. “Yeah yeah, I know, It’s a crappy situations, specially since they want to do some unethical experimentation on the whole lot of us, Crane may actually be better than that now a days but the Joker is at The GIW’s level of things, on a good day, at worse they may be WORSE than the Joker’s “Experiments”. So keep your eyes peeled and if you see em grabbing any of ours, that includes your local Vigilantes, then make a call and get involved, the Bats may steal our bones and make our work difficult but at least they have rules. unlike these petty punks. QUESTIONS! DO YOU HAVE ‘EM?” 

The room became a shouting match for a moment before settling into several people bullying their way into the center of the warehouse, at the base of the pile of crates that Bill was using for his podium. After some muttering a short man stepped up onto one of the lower crates. “We recognize the leader of the Goonion members serving under The Red Hood, go ahead Mister Kincaid.” Kincaid nodded.

“What are the rules of engagement? Or are we suspending those since these White Suited Bastards seem to look at the Geneva Conventions and the Laws of the Alley as more of a checklist than a warning?” Bill looked around before straightening.

“I’ve spoken with the Reps from as far East as Boston to as far West as Anchorage, until the Anti-Ecto Acts and GIW are suspended and disbanded the rules of Engagement will be To The Hilt, expect No Mercy, if they catch you, they will torture you, so give back as good as you can, unless you have your bosses or your local Cape nearby. Make Noise in that case, try to get the Bat’s attention, he likes them less than we do.” The room rippled with laughter as Kincaid surrendered his stand to a well dressed woman in a three piece suit and top hat, one of Penguins Goons. “We recognize the Icebergs head of security Miss Eliza Smith.”

“What do we do with anything we take from them? Their, Ecto-Blasters? They use Bazooka’s for Pete's sake!” Bill scratched his jaw as he looked around at the amassed Goons.

“Alright, we can keep those guns stashed away, until we know what they do you keep them as secured as possible, Remember we DO have a warehouse for such things.” The crowd murmured, if the GIW was packing THIS much heat then some plans had to be made. As Miss Smith stepped back down back into the swarm of other Penguin Goons another man stepped forward, wearing a bomber jacket with a question mark stitched on the breast pocket. “We Recognize Jonathan O’Brien of The Riddler’s crew.”

“Why are the GIW here? I read the brief but I’m not all that sure what “Ectoplasm” is.” Agreements were uttered by others in the crowd as Bill reached into the backpack by his feet and drawing out a sheaf of papers.

“Gotham,” He began, “Is on a thin patch of reality, the other side? The Afterlife? That’s on the other side, the only other thin patch in the US is a place called Amity Park and that place has been under siege for YEARS by the GIW, but there's the possibility of a portal opening here in Gotham, so the GIW is planning to put us to the same type of siege, few in, few out. Ectoplasm is the equivalent to matter, to molecules and the like, in the realms of the dead, it’s radioactive to a degree, with people exposed to it for long amounts of time becoming “Liminals”, living beings who gain some abilities, usually becoming more durable and observant, blending more with their environment, hell I think the bats and birds are liminal to some degree, and some of our bosses, some of US, and some of our common civvie friends who live in Gotham are Liminals, Jason Todd-Wayne, the primary rep for The Red Hood Gang, was dead for a while, and came back somehow, current assumption is that he’s a Liminal of a higher order of magnitude. If you have friends or family members who have experienced something similar, please show them the documents regarding Liminals that were with the brief, that answer your question O’Brien?” O’Brien nodded and stepped down, no one else stepped forward. “Alright then, all leaders stick around for information packets, everyone else, go home, keep an eye on things, and try not to walk on any graves. I call this meeting of the Goonion to a close.” With that Bill slammed his foot on the crate and the crowd began flowing out of the Warehouse, mostly in small groups and pairs, but no one left alone.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

In a small town called Spittoon in Arkansas a small family of four waited, watching from a tree line as darkness filled the sky, drowning the last of the sunlight as instead the sky filled with specks of light, the stars coming into visibility as The Sun’s rays dimmed.

“Your sure you have everything?” Jazz looked over at her Aunt, still hovering near, still armed with a rifle that could probably take someone’s head off.

“Yep, just waiting on Extract.” Her Aunt nodded, patting her shoulder before ruffling Ellie’s hair and walking over to Danny. He had taken their parents alleged deaths the hardest, after they had begun accepting his Ghostly half and trying to understand more. Unfortunately when they presented their “New Research” to the GIW, they were deemed compromised. Once they had found that out they had enacted contingencies, locking the portal from the Living side, ensuring the only blueprints were with their children for ANY of their designs, and then taking the GIW on a goose chase as far in the opposite direction of where Jazz, Danny, and Ellie had fled as possible.

They made it to Olympia in Washington State, where the Ops Center had finally been forced to ground. Danny hadn’t felt anything but the reports that the “Mad Doctors Fenton” had been killed in a standoff had dealt a blow to him. 

“Danny?” The boy looked up at his Aunt Alicia, “You’ll make it through, Maddie has always been built of sturdy stuff, and Jack is just the same.” The boy nodded, seemingly dragged from whatever thoughts were clouding his mind. The wind picked up an hour later as the four of them sat in the grass, no one had pulled out flashlights but the descending aircraft turned a single floodlight on, bathing the clearing in light before the hatch opened, and out stepped Red Hood. 

Alicia turns her attention to her younger Nephew and Niece, allowing Jazz and Hood [one Jason Todd, apparently] and checked them over one last time before hearing a cleared throat behind her. When she looked over she saw the giant of a man who had taken an interest in her niece and suffice to say, he was not as tall as Jazz had made him sound. “He’s shorter than I thought he’d be.” Danny and Ellie cackled behind her as they began lugging their bags over to Jazz, Hood’s helmet not giving away his expression as he slumped slightly.

“Really?” Alicia smiled and patted his shoulder. 

“Your not the biggest person I’ve met, these pipsqueaks will take after their Father more than likely, a little collection of giants if you will.” She could hear the poor bastard rolling his eyes. “Anyways, everything set up for them?” She crossed her arms, watching as Red Hood straightened out more. 

“Yes, Jazz’s college credits have been transferred, their identities have been hidden and new ones have been confirmed, by the way I still want to know who made those, their good. And I think I’ve found a school for Danny and Ellie.” The Groans that sounded from the two youngest was like music to her ears, she nodded in approval. “I also told some of my extended family about, well, all the stuff going on, so they’ll have people looking out for them who are in the good end of the law.” Alicia raised a brow.

“Like the Bat?” Hood seemed to still and turn slightly. “It’s not hard to figure out if you have some of the pieces, Jazz didn’t even tell me, you were the Second Robin I take it?” Hood stared at her for a moment before nodding. “Alright, good to have that theory confirmed, we’re all a little too curious for our own good, us Walkers always have been, you take care of them, got it?” Hood nodded again, seeming far more sure of himself now, good, she’d hate to spook him too badly. “Good, now,” She unslung her rifle, unloaded the old bolt action, and handed it handle first to Hood, “A little something, that thing’s been in my family for years, This was my Grand Uncle’s first, then my Pop’s, then mine when Maddie didn’t want to have a “Live Firearm” in the house, I know the GIW will come snooping, but I’ve got my own plans for them, if they work out, expect me or a letter within six months.” She turned to her Nieces and Nephews who had come up behind Red Hood. “Be good, be safe, and don’t let them take you quietly, I love you all.” She stepped past Hood, embraced each of her Sister’s children one last time and stepped back, nodding to them before retreating to the edge of the clearing. When she turned around to watch as her the floodlight shut off and the plane rose into the sky, she knew she’d see them again, it may just take longer. She stayed in that clearing for a time after they were well out of eyesight, a fistful of rifle rounds in her pocket, a bowie knife in her boot, and plans, ever churning, in her mind. Alicia Walker had work to do.

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[BEGIN TRANSMISSION, PENTAGON TO JL STATION:WATCHTOWER]

PENT: Prepare for Information Packet.

PENT: [FOLDER.FEDGOV.GIW.A-EA]

JLWATCH: Pentagon whose authority is this coming from.

PENT: Negative, Good Luck. Check on Captain Marvel.

JLWATCH: Pentagon?

JLWATCH: Pentagon Respond.

-SESSION TERMINATED-

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To: Batman, Superman, WanderWoman

From: Comms Officer Sam Thule

Subject: The Anti-Ecto Acts and Ghost Investigation Ward

Boss, the Pentagon just sent us some stuff, I think you need to see this. If you can get Captain Marvel up here too we’ll need him here soon.

[SEE ATTACHMENTS]

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Tag Section

@cass-brightwood @justwannabecat @luckykittens198 @vythika96 @ultimatebluff @amercurio @tkiesai @escelia @jaggedheart11 @lexdamo @ascetic-orange @botwadtict @nutcase8691  @delicioushologramperson @sailor-goddess @meira-3919 @icedbluesoul ALRIGHTY TAGGED FOLKS! IF YOU WANT TO CHECK ON THIS SERIES I WILL BE UPDATING THE LIST BELOW WHENEVER I UPDATE! SO USE THAT! [I may or may not link this chapter or further ones in a similar way, my brain is like, non operable at the moment.] 

Links to other Chapters

Chapter 1 

Chapter 2

[apas-95]

I think people forget that the Foundation has, if not a budget (such a thing being, honestly, somewhat ridiculous), then 'just' a finite number of employees, buildings, cement mixers, and *time*. For a given object there has to be a genuine reason why it is overall worth it to be performing tests and long-term containment on it rather than just launching it into the Oort cloud inside of a shipping container. They'll try to decommission the lizard because it's cheaper than the alternative, so what's so... *useful* to them about a given item is, I find, much of the hook of an article. It got completely overdone in the whole Omega 7 lolfoundation era, but it was what made so much of the roughly 2K-4K era so effective, if in a more subtle way - the megaprojects and incomprehensible lateral-thinking plots were all, ultimately, the product of an organisation with a logistical chain going all the way down into the mud a human being dressed in reflective, waterproof pants and polyurethane boots has to carry a checklist through. Ultimately, it was a fantasy world where there was still a need for international shipping label standards to make sure your warehouse attendant can receive nuclear test components from a blacksite they aren't aware of, for a researcher who thinks there are like, five anomalous items in existence total. When it doesn't have that, and just makes the foundation omnipotent... it really loses its charm for me.

[celenawrites]

safe and sound

Pairing - Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x f!Reader

Warnings - Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots-in-love, pining, mentions of injuries and blood, mentions of needles, mentions of death, mentions of religious metaphors and the like (is it obvious that I have some religious trauma?), lots of yearning and tender moments(they should probably talk it out, but they won't - what a bummer), kinda whump/whumpee scenario, Gaz is forward with the praise, a lot of subtle yearning, somewhat open-ending.

Summary -

You're bleeding and bruised when he finds you.

Category -

1. One-shot

8. Safe House

Prompts -

5. 'I'll take care of you.'

11. 'Let me see you.'

14. 'Stay still.'

15. 'Take it off.'

Word Count - 2.8k

AO3 Version

Note -

This fic was written for 'Gazfest 2023' being organized by @glitterypirateduck. This event has led me to discovering so many writers and so many great stories for Gaz!

Check it out here: - Gazfest 2023

The mission had gone smoothly, for the most part. 

No one had died, no one was compromised and your team had been able to locate the weapon cache the cartel had been hiding in their expansive warehouse - stashed in the very heart of their operations, surrounded by drugs, guns and blood money. 

And yet you cannot help but feel like you have failed somehow. 

You lean against the wall, sitting on the island of the wash basin as you calmly debate the merits and demerits of forgoing a much-needed bath. You make a little game out of it - writing in your little mental lists about how fucked you’d be if you decide to not clean yourself up. 

Pros - you can go to sleep on the uncomfortable cot laid out in the small bedroom, you can go eat some awful MREs, you can talk to your captain and get an update on when you will leave, and did you mention that you can finally hit the hay?

Cons - you stink, your uniform is soaked in blood and sweat, you have injuries that you need to tend to (something that you do not look forward to), and you’re sure that you’d feel so much better if you take a steaming hot shower. 

Too bad that the water runs cold here. 

It is when you’re wholly absorbed into completing your mental checklist, when you see the door in front of you shake and hear the incessant sound of someone knocking on the wooden barrier as if it has personally offended them. 

You call out hesitantly, unsure about your ability to get up from your uncomfortable seat without worsening the injury into the side of your torso. 

“The door’s unlocked”. 

And that is where you seem to have messed up. 

The doorknob twists and the door is pushed open to the side, revealing a very pissed Sgt. Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick standing on the threshold of the room. You stare at him with wide eyes, and he wears an almost enraged expression on his handsome face, despite his best efforts in schooling himself to appear nonchalant to you. 

He has shed off his heavy jacket, his undershirt peeking from the few buttons of his military shirt. In one of his hands, he carries a first aid kit. And you take a secret oath in your mind to kick ass of whoever tipped him off about you. 

Probably Soap, that fucker-

The sergeant was the last person you wished to see at the moment, within reason. 

There has been a weird tension between you and him for the past couple of weeks. Ignored texts, brushed off advances, physical barriers and distances initiated by him that made you wonder if the bond you shared with the man had been nothing but a mirage that helped you tether your sanity as you survived the everyday grimness that haunts a person working in the military.  The ache in your heart had soon turned into a silent indignation of sorts, egging you on to match each action of his with a petty counteract of your own.  You refused to seek his company, and malevolent compliance had been your best companion when the direct chain of command forced you to listen to anything the sergeant requested; clearly the head on your shoulders worked well enough for you to prioritize the mission and the safety of your comrades over anything else, but it was extremely satisfying to watch your friend (The same friend who had just cut you out of his life in all regards like an invasive weed - forgetting that once its roots take place, the weed is nearly impossible to get rid of; and you’d be damned if you let him get rid of you so easily.) seethe in anger as you obey his commands on your own terms.  It all came to a head a week prior to the mission you were supposed to go on with the entire team. You had been minding your business, really - barely sparing Garrick a glance as you went about your way to brew yourself a pot of coffee when you heard him muttering something under his breath. You ask him to repeat himself, and next thing you know is that both of you are screaming your heads off - him for your ‘insubordination’ and you for him being a major bag of dicks.  With defeat sagging your shoulders and a deep exhale to calm yourself down, you detach yourself from the scene, leaving the man behind to his own devices in the rec room. It’s a miracle you didn’t raise your fists against him - you’d certainly have ended up with a broken wrist had you not retreated like a poor prey with your tail between your legs. And Gaz would’ve ended up with a broken nose.  It was more astonishing that the angry cacophony of yelling had not summoned your captain to the scene of the crime. 

You hadn’t spoken to the man since then. 

He takes long strides towards the wash basin, and you are mere inches away from your superior - close enough to take note of the pensive look on his face, his eyebrows furrowed and enhancing his crow’s feet under the pathetic yellow glow of the shitty bulb-light illuminating the otherwise grim room. 

If this was a lighter moment, you’d have eased the tension by pressing between his eyebrows - massaging away his tension with a simple roll of your thumb against his skin. If you were not mortally wounded and your sergeant wasn’t pissed at you right now, you’d have cracked a joke at your expense to see him laugh, his chuckle warming you up like the flames that licked at your fingertips whenever you got close to the fire to cook at home. 

Unfortunately, this is not the moment for you to attempt to make merry. 

He slams down puts down the kit on the island, next to your thigh and you flinch at the sudden movement. Your skittering only seems to make your injuries sting worse, and you grab at your abdomen, groaning at the sudden pain that shoots through you. You look down at your clenched hands, and notice how the blood paints them red. Your eyes widen a little at the scene, your fingers shaking with tremors as you try to appear unfazed at the crimson staining your skin and your clothes. 

You are always surprised at the mortality you possess whenever you get a close brush with death, not knowing when it will be your last. 

Gaz opens the metallic box open, meticulously pulling out various instruments to put at his disposal - gauze, bandages, rubbing alcohol, sterilized needles, and sutures. He looks up at you, his eyes narrowing as he takes in your pained expression and your crimson fingertips twitching mid-air.

With a ticked jaw, he demands, “Take it off”. 

“W-What?” you mumble out the question, slightly confused at his sudden order. 

With a sigh, he repeats himself for you, “I said, take it off”. 

The blood loss, while not fatal, seems to be impairing you cognitively. 

Dumbly, you ask again, “Why?”

He rubs at his forehead in frustration, and you’re almost inclined to apologize for worrying him. You wish to run your nails through his curls, quietly pinching at his nape as you rest your forehead against his and beg him to forgive you for being such an idiotic mess. 

Instead, you lean against the tiled walls like a delirious fool, losing blood fast. 

Patiently, he explains to you, taking into account your slowing brain, “You need to get those wounds checked, don’t you now?”

You nod at him with pursed lips, not at all happy at your current predicament. You can try and refuse, and he’d only end up butting heads with you again. Or you can swallow up your pride, and let him fix you up - awkward as that might seem. 

“Let me see you, then”, he asks you, and the shake in his otherwise firm voice makes you comply. 

Silently, you unfasten the buttons of your military-issued uniform shirt with shaky fingers. 

One by one. 

One by one. 

One by one. 

Your fingers give up on the task just shy of the last two buttons of the garment, the tremors making it almost impossible for you to even steady your aching arm. 

“Shit, shit, shit”, you curse to yourself, your fingertips constantly missing the plastic buttons on the shirt despite your best efforts. Irked at your inability to master such a simple task, you cannot help the tears of irritation that well up in your eyes, blurring your vision and giving you a much harder time with something you could’ve been done with in seconds. 

Calloused hands touch yours, and you can feel your skin set ablaze at the fragility of the touch as you look into the eyes of your dear friend and coworker. Glassy eyes look into his dark ones, conveying every little thing you wish to tell him - anguish, yearning, guilt, remorse, and  love. 

Every little thing that you fail to put into words and speech because your mouth is suddenly very dry, as if you have swallowed cotton and your tongue is weighed down by a block of lead. 

He always made you feel so nervous. 

He calls out your name (it sounds so sweet, so pristine when he says it - he exhales out each syllable of your moniker in reverence, as if you were a prayer to be uttered with utmost vigilance and devotion) and you snap out of your thoughts - your ears heating up partly due to embarrassment and partly due to the sudden proximity you share with the man standing before you. 

“I’ll handle this, ‘k?” his fingers toy with your button, and you do not protest as he unbuttons the last few of them near the hem of your shirt, leaving the center of your torso exposed. The cotton fabric sticks to your skin, thanks to the oozing wound on your waist that you had been nursing in the bathroom for the past half hour or so. 

You feel bashful, and yet you do not have the energy to express it - your eyes feeling heavier with every blink and the deft fingers of your sergeant feel warm against your cold, pallid skin. You fight yourself to stay awake, not eager about sleeping with untreated injuries and the dizziness that plagues you due to blood loss. 

You feel him tap at your arms, and you raise them just high enough so that he can lower down the sleeves of your shirt and undress you, leaving you in nothing but in a pair of khaki pants and your plain black bra. This is the closest you have come to being nude around the man, and if you weren't in enough pain to want to shoot yourself in the foot for your stupidity, you’d have tried to cover yourself up with your hands at least. 

Sadly, all modesty flew out of the window the moment you decided to get hurt on the field. 

Sometimes, modesty seems to leave your brain whenever you’re around him too. 

Kyle observes you with narrowed eyes, assessing the damage you had accumulated because of him. A lapse in judgment on his part had resulted in him not keeping a close eye around him and almost taking a bullet to his head - had you not tackled the henchmen to the ground; the scuffle had ended when you had slit his throat with your favorite knife, but not before taking some injuries of your own. 

When he had asked you about it, you had shrugged it off at the moment, assuring him that whatever you are inflicted with is something you can handle just fine. 

Clearly that was a lie, if your bloodied body is anything to go by it. 

Your face bears a few nicks and cuts that have already ceased bleeding - nothing too bad. Your body from neck down, however, seems to be a macabre masterpiece. Purple and yellow bruises litter across your shoulders and love handles. There are a few cuts that are closed up with dried blood; some of them are long enough to warrant some surgical assistance for recovery. And then he takes into notice your bloodied waist - the gash still oozing with fresh blood. 

You probably got it from the henchmen who almost blew his head off. 

He cannot believe he had let you get hurt on his watch. And he chides himself even more for believing your lies so easily. 

He is still so angry. At you. At himself. 

He tears out a piece of gauze from the packet he had laid out beside you, before slowly soaking it in a generous amount of rubbing alcohol. Your shoulders tense at the implication, and Gaz notices. (Of course, he does. He always noticed everything when it came to you.)

“This one’s gonna sting” is all he says before he’s pressing the gauze against an open wound and you prevent the scream that works up your throat by biting your tongue, grinding your molars against the muscle and tasting iron in your mouth. 

Your body twitches like a wild livewire as Gaz tries his best to treat your wounds, barely giving you a warning before you can feel the alcohol burn into your skin. You do not scream, but your sensitivity to pain leads you to shed a few tears of agony as you wait it all out with baited breath.

“.....So fucking stupid”, you hear the sergeant grumble to himself in your haze as he cleans your wounds and every time the gauze touches your skin, you cannot help but inch away from his hands, unable to handle the painful aftermath. 

“Cannot believe…”

“You really had to-”

He cuts himself off before he could finish his sentences, or maybe your brain is on a gradual process of shutting down - making it harder with each passing moment to pay attention to what he has to say to you. Through your muddled thoughts, all you can decipher is that he sounds angry. 

He’s angry. 

You shift just a little, hoping to brace for the pain by moving away from it - your pain-addled brain making you believe that prolonging the contact with the rubbing alcohol would help you recuperate from the pain much better. It only made the wound in your side bleed more, the droplets of crimson flowing down your abdomen like an endless rivulet.  

Kyle notices that, and he quickly grabs you by your shoulders to stop you from moving too much. You squirm under his touch; his palms are far too hot for your freezing skin, and you’d have probably jumped at the impact, had it not been for the indestructible hold he has of you. 

“Stay still”, he commands you, and you stop any and all movement immediately. You’re not sure you wish to fire the fuel that has been ignited in him when he saw your injured body on the island slab of the basin. 

“That’s it, sweetheart”, he assures you, his hands playing with the tips of your hair to soothe you, and you can feel shivers run down your spine. It’s soothing, to still be able to feel and react to his touch as if it’s the first time. 

“It hurts”, you sob out to him, your hands itching to grab at the wound near your waist - desperate to put any pressure on it, to stop the red liquid from leaving you lifeless. You’re scared and it shows. 

You won’t die, not yet anyway. And that is the only comforting thought you can muster to hold onto. 

You won’t die, even if your insides scream from the agony it feels from all of its open wounds and the ache your relaxed muscles throb with incessantly. 

You feel like you’re dying, but God has favored you today yet again. 

You wonder if the reason is divine intervention or a divine curse haunting you. 

“I know, sweet thing. I do. You did so good out there, having my back, yeah?” he asks and you nod eagerly in response, hoping to make amends with Gaz just in case. 

Just in case you breathe your last right here right now. In case you have run out of favor with the unknown deity who has protected you all this time without you knowing. 

“I got this, okay? I got you”, he leaves a soft kiss on your forehead, murmuring the affirming words against your skin. You feel yourself lighten up just a little at the gesture, knowing that this was not only to console you, but his own peace offering to you for earlier. For every little transgression he had committed against you. 

For the fight. For everything. 

“I promise everything will be okay. I’ll take care of you.”, he assures you, and for a moment you have faith that you’d live through the pain if he’s the one tending to it. 

Note -

I saw Prompts 5, 14 and 15 on the list and I couldn't resist writing a 'tending to your beloved in the bathroom while they're sitting and you're standing in front of them' scenario. Also a long lost fan art of the bathroom scene between Kaz Brekker and Inej Ghafa is a huge inspiration for this fic. (I have the books but I haven't gotten around to reading them. I have seen clips of the show, and I regret not having Netflix. Also, the yearning between the two is immaculate and the fanart is like stuck in my head, so if anyone can find it and send it to me, I'd appreciate it a lot.)

This is my first time participating for an event (at least for this fandom and blog). I seldom do these challenges because I tend to procrastinate for too long and forget to write before the due date.

When I finally finished the initial edit of this fic this morning, I almost entertained the idea of extending this fic, maybe by writing a second part of this story and incorporating a few more prompts in the Gazfest. But I have way too many WIPs to pay attention to, an original manuscript I need to start working on (and another one I need to edit), and I need to prepare for my final year of college too - so this is all I can offer, I am afraid. Maybe I will write a continuation of this, maybe I will write things from Gaz's perspective, but I won't be able to finish it in time, I am afraid. But I hope you enjoyed reading it, just like I enjoyed writing it. :)

Also, nevermind the title. I suck at naming things and I suck with names - can never get it right anyway. (also the Taylor Swift song being used as a title was purely coincidental - I swear on it)

[klausinamarink]

Love Over Box Labels

rating: G | cw: none | tags: modern au, no Upside Down, the romanticism of workings at warehouses | wc: 987

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles | Dec 4: Meet Cute at Work

—

When his dad had threatened Steve into working at a warehouse instead of being the good CEO’s son, Steve had laughed at his face and said, “Go ahead! Maybe I’ll like it better than your stupid neopet position!”

It’s been two years since that conversation. And Steve’s still working at the warehouse. Though it’s not the same one his dad plunked him in. He’s since transferred to another place for a full time position. And Steve loves it.

Maybe ‘love’ is too strong a word to use. Steve definitely doesn’t love waking up at five-thirty in the morning every weekday, requiring espresso to prevent falling asleep on his feet within the first few hours, and the muscle strain from all the heavy lifting.

But warehouse work is surprisingly mundane and much better than Steve expects. He chats with his coworkers, the music choices aren’t bad, and the days can pass within a blink through the repetition of box folding and forklifting shipments.

There’s one guy that keeps catching Steve’s attention though.

As one of the new contract workers who came in last week, the new guy - Eddie, according to his ID badge - has long curly black hair tied up in a bun, black fitted clothes with different band tees, and a few tattoos on his bare arms. His brown eyes were dearly expressive, a bit helpful since he was also one of the few employees still wearing a mask. (an automatic sign of a decent person in Steve’s mental checklist)

As a team leader trains Eddie on the basic operations of their taping machines at the other line, Steve keeps sneaking glances at him as he steers a pump truck of packages into the shipping area. Eddie’s eyes are narrowed with concentration, nodding along at Deb’s words, probably unaware of his surroundings at the moment.

Steve gives out a quiet sigh. Then he mentally slaps himself. Jeez, this is a new low bar of pathetic-ness for him. Crushing on a new coworker who either doesn’t know he exists or has noticed Steve and thinks he’s a creep.

He should probably just be normal and try talking to Eddie during lunch. Problem is that Eddie is working on another line which has a different break time than Steve’s line. So unless the leaders rotate the employee’s positions to other lines next Monday, then Eddie’s going to be far from Steve’s reach.

Steve shakes his head, focusing back to his work. Whatever. It’s just a stupid crush. He’s gonna get over it because he and Eddie are never going to talk anyways.

—

“Steve, can you let Eddie help you with those labels?”

Steve blinks at Karen, caught off-guard by her sudden appearance with Eddie right next to her. He only manages to answer coherently, “Oh, sure!”

“That’s lovely!” Karen smiles at him, patting Eddie on the arm as she leaves. And then it’s the two of them at this table with stacks of boxes and rolls of labeled stickers.

“So…” Steve starts. “You're new here, right?” He kicks himself in the shin because what the hell, Steve?

Eddie just gives a jerky nod. “Yeah, first season.” He says, clipped. His eyes flick down to the labels questioningly. “How do I..?”

“Oh, this is like, super easy stuff, dude.” Steve says, hoping he doesn’t sound too eager on showing off the beauty of box labeling. “You just take this white label, place it here right above the numbers, take this..” He continues his demonstration to Eddie, who’s once again narrow-eyed with concentration. Steve nearly flutters when he notices how close enough he is that he can see the pinched furrow of Eddie’s eyebrows and a faint speckle of freckles below his eyes.

Be still, my bisexual heart. Steve demands as he looks away just before Eddie’s eyes - they’re so round, oh god - catches his. “You got it?”

Eddie nods, “Easy enough.”

“Cool.”

Unfortunately, that’s just all they say to each other as they work in tangent on the labels. Steve wants to talk to Eddie again. Bring something up like-

“Nice tattoos, by the way.”

Lord, please smite me from this earth and send me to Amazon.

“Thanks, man.” When Steve looks at him, Eddie’s eyes are crinkled up. “They’re super old, though. Got them when I was a rebellious junior student. Been thinking about getting new ones over it.”

“I mean, if you wanna change them or whatever, that’s totally up to you! Just saying that the bats look wicked.”

Eddie quirks an eyebrow. “You like the bats?”

“Yeah! They’re, uh, your favorite animals?”

“In a way.”

Pretty soon, they both fall into an easy conversation, discussing bits of their respective upbringings and what they’d done before coming here. They only pause to collect new boxes and bring the finished ones to the packers. When lunch break is called, Steve’s relieved that Eddie now has the same schedule, allowing them to talk more.

It creates a delightful feeling in Steve’s chest.

—

“I really learned a lot,” Eddie says as they walk out the building together at the end of the shift, “I don’t think I could survive today without you.”

“Really?”

Eddie takes off his mask. Steve’s heart flips sideways at the sight of the other man’s eye-crinkling smile. “Yeah. Now I know how to label boxes like my life depends on it.”

Steve bursts out a good-hearted laugh, “Well, if you want more advice, I can give you my number.”

Eddie stares at him for a beat before smiling wider, “I wouldn’t mind that.”

[sendpseuds]

Wip Wednesday - Spirit Halloween

The Halloween decorations are going up and I don’t remember the last time I had something for wip Wednesday so you’re getting a long one

Enjoy 🖤

The clock on the wall sounds like a heartbeat.

The second hand pulls back and lurches forward, steady and measured and maddening.

One-two. One-two. One-two.

It's loud and irritating, but honestly, anything is better than listening to The Monster Mash for the millionth time tonight.

No one has set foot in this temporarily occupied warehouse in over an hour and Anakin is beyond ready to get the fuck out of here.

The closing checklist is almost complete— the changing rooms have been cleared of unwanted costumes, each cheap plastic garment put back in its package and out on display, the register has been counted, the floors have been swiffered, the door has been locked. All he has to do is shut down the animatronics, turn off the lights and—

"Jesus-fucking-Christ," Anakin barks when a knock at the door nearly startles him out of his skin, clutching his chest to feel the frantic onetwo onetwo onetwo of his own heart fast outpacing the clock's suddenly sluggish tempo.

It takes a moment to catch his breath, his pulse still thundering in his ears when he looks up to find a man wearing a dark suit and an apologetic expression.

Normally, Anakin would just ignore the guy — maybe shout, 'We're closed,' and point at his watchless wrist before rolling his eyes and returning to his end-of-night checklist — but when the man raises his hand to give an almost adorably embarrassed wave, Anakin finds himself unlocking the door before he can think twice.

"I'm terribly sorry," the stranger says before the door is even open, rushed and painfully polite, "I didn't mean to frighten you."

He sounds like he stepped out of some critically acclaimed period drama about dukes and duchesses, and while he's not wearing coattails or a top hat he definitely looks like he could be a lord or something.

"It's fine," Anakin chuckles, a strange nervous tickle in the back of his throat as he breathes in the cold night air, shifting his weight slightly and trying to remember why exactly he opened the door in the first place, "Look, man, I'm really sorry, but we're—"

"You're closed," the man says before he can finish, nodding his head in acknowledgment, standing up a straighter like he thinks he can match Anakin's height, "I realize that and I apologize, but I was hoping that you could—"

"Sorry, dude," Anakin interrupts, shaking his head and finding himself strangely reluctant when the man frowns, "Already shut down the registers, couldn't sell you anything even if I wanted to."

His eyes drop in disappointment, lips in a thin line, but when his brows raise, head tilted to one side, Anakin lets out a low sigh, realizing this man isn't ready to give up.

"Cash?"

And if that doesn't pique Anakin's interest.

"I have—" the man murmurs absently, pulling out a sleek leather wallet to leaf through the contents and Anakin can't help the way he perks up when he sees at least one, two, three bills with three digits in the corner, "Four— no, five hundred and one dollars."

Anakin needs to swallow a laugh because who the fuck carries around that much cash?

"Anything not spent on the costume is yours."

Then, he nearly chokes.

That's— that's—

Honestly, that's not even a month's rent, but to Anakin Skywalker, five hundred dollars is a lot of money.

It's a trip home to visit mom.

It's a nice birthday gift for Ahsoka.

It's breathing room.

It's one hell of a negotiation tactic.

"That desperate, huh?" Anakin manages to ask, his mind already running through exactly what he needs to do to not get caught.

"You have no idea," the stranger hums, leaning forward just enough that Anakin can see the way his smile wrinkles his eyes at the edges, "You're my only hope."

Anakin shivers.

"Five hundred dollars?" He confirms, swallowing back the wild feeling still racing down his spine.

"Five hundred and one," the man grins, and for the first time, Anakin realizes his eyes shine like silver.

"Alright," he breathes, something strange studdering his heart as he holds the door open, "Come on in."

[calamitys-child]

Another job I'd consider doing a day or two a week of if I wasn't worrying about income is honestly warehouse work. I've done local warehouse shifts a couple times and I really liked it. Was working for a cosmetics store managing their deliveries a few years back and it was fucking great, all I had to do was get given a checklist, make sure everything we asked for had come off the truck, then go organise it alphabetically in a room where nobody talked to me and I got to pick all my music or podcast accompaniment. I got real strong and I smelled of flowers and citrus all the time. I loved that job wish they paid properly and didn't make you do 24/7 absolutely literally back breaking shit. Two days a week doing that would be equivalent to a full strength workout and at the end of it both me and the customers would get a cute soap. Excellent outcome why do all the employers want me dead

[givemeanaccountalready]

One last post before I turn for the night. You know how projection is one hell of a drug? And that Kotoko doesn’t like Mikoto at all while Mikoto keeps trying to befriend her? Maybe it’s because Kotoko sees the worst of herself in Mikoto and rejecting him is how she rejects that part of herself, while Mikoto sees the most pitiable parts of himself in her (like her self-imposed isolation and high standards) and is trying to give her the treatment he wished others had given him?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m still firmly in the camp of “Mikoto killed somebody and John covered for him well enough that denying it ever happened wasn’t that hard,” but you guys ever hear that one saying: that the water that boiled the egg, softens the potato? Some people face adversity and when they see others face that same sort of adversity, they say, “I managed just fine on my own/I pulled myself up by my bootstraps so why won’t you?” Others face adversity and when they see others face it as well, their instinct is “I wish I had had help so I’m going to try and help.”

Now, let me be clear, I am not using childhood trauma to excuse what Kotoko did. But I’m extremely curious as to what you have to do to a kid to make them grow up to become what Kotoko is. Same with Mikoto. It’s less of an “I want an easy excuse to justify it,” and more of a “I want context to better understand what led up to this.”

From what I remember reading about the articles shown in Harrow, the pedophile she killed had a rich daddy who was implied to have swept it under the rug and got him released. For completely understandable reasons, Kotoko is pissed. Not only does he not show any remorse, but he is a repeat offender who will continue to hurt other young girls. I could understand why the cops decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth and wash their hands of the whole debacle by agreeing with Kotoko and the girl’s story that it was all justifiable within self-defense. The problem Kotoko then faced was that the pedophile had a rich father who could and did pay for an independent review. And then upon hearing that the injuries his son faced before he died exceeded what one could claim self-defense, went on to publish the hell out of the story to get Kotoko punished. In Harrow, when we see her storm the warehouse, there are frames showing a partial overhead view of a woman lying on the ground, a partial view of a man with a hammer who looks very similar to the pedophile, and a clear view of a young girl bound and gagged in a dark room. Did something similar happen in Kotoko’s past and that’s why she’s so stuck in her views on strength, pain, and penance?

Same with Mikoto. DID is a rare condition that usually forms in response to extreme childhood trauma. Mikoto could be one of the unlucky few that developed it past the normal point, but it’s more likely that something happened to him when he was young. Maybe whatever happened was the reason why his parents divorced and not because his father worked all the time. Mikoto clings to his view that if he follows the rules, works hard, and checks off the boxes to the “respectability” checklist that he will be fine. Almost as much as Kotoko clings to her worldviews. It sounds like gossip-mongering I know, but I want to know to try and understand how what happened had happened the way it did and if it could have been prevented.

[artsy-book]

The Social Experiments: The Spirit Of The Cabin

I GOT THE FIRST ONE DONE!!!!! ^-^ I love how it turned out so much!!! especially charlie!! slime demon charlie is my favourite guy and he had to be a main focus in the backgrounds!! ^-^

there is more versions of the background and more rambling about this below the cut :D

OKAY OKAY OKAY I HAVE SO MUCH I WANT TO SAY ABOUT THIS OMG!!!! i love the way this looks so much! i really love that i had taaken notes while watching it live because it gave me a nice checklist of thinsg to include. and i did want to do charlie sneeg and ranboo all together buut i couldnt find good enough pose refrences to make a group of three and decided that it would probably be too busy with all three anyways. but i fee like the pose i picked works so well for charlie and how silly and goofy his character is in tsofc as well as just being really cool looking as he is the slime demon :) i also really like how the cabin room section turned out. i couldt do any super amount of detail because of the really small scale i was working with, but i feel like i emulated it well enought that it is very easy to tell what it is supposed to be. AND the reason it is split into 5 sections is because of the door. one of my notes is literally "door to anywhere and nowhere" and decided that each door would lead to each of the different places the door took ranboo; christian hell with the flames, slime dimension with the slimy goo, the beach with the red ocean and sky, the warehouse that lead us to the mastermind of the warehouse, and i also included the car park that we didn't get to see that ranboo shared on one of his follow up streams after genloss. and i don't know why, but i heavily gravitaed towards the christian hell dimension and made a note that just says hell, so that's why there are big flames all around he outside i feel like its pretty fitting tho with how everything ends in the end haha :) now the little pentagons were just added to fill in the blank space some and i used pentagons to match the big one in the center and figured they could be like soot or ashes from the flames. i had also added the skulls to help fill in the blank space and as a lil representaion of frank :D

anyways definitely check out @ranboolivesaysstuff and check out genloss because I am going insane over it ^-^

[inaducursehq]

☆ﾟ.*・ ◞ anna diop / nonbinary / black / she + her ——— is that aliza miller on bourbon street ? the 35 / 35 year old witch who stays in art warehouse district ?  they are notoriously known for being observant & detail-oriented but also hesitant & emotional. which is probably why they are considered the eagle eye around town.  i wonder if they had their tarot cards reading, yet? either way, the cards on the table will reveal their fate soon enough // kau, 25+, they / them, est. .

accepted! welcome to new orleans, louisiana  aliza miller  [anna diop ] ! this city is known for its annual celebrations and festivals, most notably mardi gras. nevertheless, the catfish city has many cards and it's only a matter of time before you pull yours. please send in your account within 24 hours ! and be sure to take a look at the checklist now that you've arrived! we're happy to have you with us, kau !!

☆ﾟ.*・ ◞ jessica alexander / agender / white / they / she ——— is that anette salvatore-gilbert on bourbon street ? the 24 / 24 year old cured human who stays in central district downtown? i heard their biological parents are damon salvatore & elena gilbert. they are notoriously known for being amicable & sociable but also agitated & sarcastic. which is probably why they are considered the snapdragon around town.  i wonder if they had their tarot cards reading, yet? either way, the cards on the table will reveal their fate soon enough // (kau)

accepted! welcome to new orleans, louisiana  anette salvatore-gilbert  [ jessica alexander ] ! this city is known for its annual celebrations and festivals, most notably mardi gras. nevertheless, the catfish city has many cards and it's only a matter of time before you pull yours. please send in your account within 24 hours ! and be sure to take a look at the checklist now that you've arrived! we're happy to have you with us, kau !!

[mykingdomforapen]

human faces

All Meryl Stryfe wanted was a scoop. What she got was a situation. 

This was to be expected when a rookie journalist was chasing after the story of the Silver Hurricane. Senior journalists hastily dodged any assignment related to the infamous catastrophic duo, citing family obligations or various other reasons to live. Rumor had it that other journalists who tried to track down the Silver Hurricane were the first to be killed in the aftermath of whatever devastation those demons inflicted–the dangers of trying to get too close for a good story. 

Meryl scoffed loudly, which made Roberto raise his eyebrows. 

“Think they’re cowards, newbie?” he asked. His voice was as flat as the desert terrain. 

“Demons is a bit much, isn’t it?” Meryl said. “We’re not supposed to exaggerate, or use that kind of inflammatory language. Cheapens our journalistic integrity.” 

Roberto grunted as he pulled his hip flask from his pocket. Meryl never figured out how there was still liquid in the little flask when he drank out of it every seven minutes (not that she kept track). Last she checked, he hadn’t snuck any liquor bottles into the back seat. 

“If you think demons is an exaggeration,” Roberto had said, “you haven’t been paying attention to the stories.”

Meryl’s lips flattened petulantly. University had taught her an overwhelming checklist of best practices and model behavior for a recent graduate in the liberal arts, and being contrarian was one of them. But she hadn’t lived under a rock, either. The city of November had designated “Silver Hurricane drills” for as long as she remembered: city-wide protocol of how to seek shelter and lock down the Plants should the two mysterious and merciless–beings–descend upon them. Even she knew that the massive, metallic bunkers would stand no chance if the ghost stories of infinite knives slicing open Plant warehouses and reducing guards to pulp were true.

Sometimes, she questioned why of all the journalists at Bernadelli News Agency, she and Roberto did not refuse to the assignment. She still had the unshakable delusion of youth that she was invulnerable and tied to nothing to go chasing after a story. She didn’t know why Roberto never used the excuse of needing to get back home in time for dinner like everyone else of his level. 

This was what brought them to a stretch of bleary deserts and pockets of small, rusting towns where rumors were as common as static noise–and Vash. 

“Just Vash,” he said brightly in his introduction. 

He was in an agreeable mood for someone whom Roberto and Meryl found dangling upside down with only decomposing bodies as company. Got caught in a bit of trouble, he said lightly when he reattached his prosthetic after giving Meryl one of the biggest shocks of her life. Let me treat you to a drink for your trouble–are you heading to Jeneora Rock too? 

“We can’t drink on the job,” Meryl said sharply, more directed towards Roberto than Vash when she saw a hopeful gleam in Roberto’s eye. “But we can give you a ride if you’d like.” 

“What? Really?” Vash exclaimed. His eyes widened behind his rosy glasses. “But I’m the one who should be giving you a ride for helping me out of a tight spot! I don’t have a driver’s license, but…” 

“Might as well let him buy us a drink, rookie,” Roberto said under his breath amidst Vash’s stuttering. “Let the kid sleep easy tonight.” 

They piled into the van, and as Meryl drove towards Jeneora Rock (“When you see the rock that looks a little like a gigantic Tomas egg, go northeast,” Vash piped up. “Then you’ll avoid the gigantic Worm carcass.”) she couldn’t help but take second and third glances at Vash through the rearview mirror. Not entirely because he was lovely to look at, but she could have sworn she recognized his face. Something about the birthmark just below the eye, maybe. 

“Are you from around here?” she asked. 

“I’ve been past here a couple of times,” Vash said easily, and without answering directly. “I’m glad that you’re coming through this area. It’s a good town, even if it’s small and quiet. And the people here are kind. They could use a couple of visitors.” 

His smile softened as he watched the window for some heartwarming nostalgia somewhere among the scorching sand and bleached tomas bones. When he turned his head, that was when Meryl noticed it. 

The rose gold sunglasses he wore added a perpetual blush to his face, and in particular to his eyes. Inside the shade of the car, away from the oppressive heat and glare of the noontime sun, she saw with piqued interest a glimpse of his eyes. 

One eye–brilliant, carefree blue. The other eye was a shocking, smoky red. 

Before Meryl could do a double-take, he turned his head and the golden glare of his sunglasses shielded him once more. 

“What are you doing in Jeneora Rock, anyway?” Vash asked. 

“We’re following a story!” Meryl said, always eager to share her work. “There are more and more cases of the Silver Hurricane, and the public need to know the truth behind them. If Roberto and I track them down, we can tell the true story–not just rumors! Oh, I’d love to get an exclusive interview–the human faces behind the Silver Hurricane!” 

She glanced up at the rearview mirror with a hopeful expectation of his reaction. Much to her dismay and self-consciousness, Vash fell silent. The easy smile that he juggled during the whole drive unexpectedly faltered. Maybe it was Meryl’s imagination, but she swore that his red eye glinted. 

“Human faces, huh?” he said lightly. “Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

(1) (2)